


Monster Comforting Monster

by Calacious



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Admitting repressed feelings, Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode Fix-it, Hurt/Comfort, Jim needs to admit his true feelings, M/M, Mentions of past Jim Gordon/Barbara Kean, Pre-Slash, Spoilers for Season 2, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 08:19:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5490248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim is tired. He wants to drink away the memory of Barbara falling from his grip, and then fall into a dreamless sleep, but things don't go as planned. When do they ever?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monster Comforting Monster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [csi_sanders1129](https://archiveofourown.org/users/csi_sanders1129/gifts).



> **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and no profit, monetary or otherwise, is being made through the writing of this.
> 
> Alternate ending to "Rise of the Villains: Tonight's the Night" Original air date, 11/09/15. Written for csi_sanders1129. I hope this works.

Jim goes home after arresting Galavan. He feels good, in spite of his heavy heart. Like he's finally accomplished something important in this town. 

It's dark, the door's unlocked, but Lee isn't home yet. She might’ve gone to her place, might still be dealing with some of the aftermath of their busy day at work. 

Jim's exhausted. Thinks nothing of it, because neither he nor Lee is perfect; doors are left unlocked, important things left unsaid. 

He can't shake the image of Barbara in that wedding gown, that damn knife held over her head, screaming like a banshee as she came running at him. Or how she’d held the knife to Lee's jaw, threatening to remove the other woman’s face as proof that she loved Jim more than Lee did. It was sick. Barbara was -- is -- sick. 

Jim feels sick just thinking about it. Has to breathe through his nose, and bite his tongue, remind himself that Barbara hadn't even nicked Lee's skin. Not a drop of Lee's blood was spilled tonight. Jim should feel relieved. 

He doesn't. 

The dull echo that reverberated off of the stone walls when Barbara let go of his hand, body hitting the pavement below the church with enough force to put her in a coma, will be the stuff of nightmares for years to come. 

Jim can't shake any of it. 

He needs a drink. 

He heads for the kitchen, depositing his weapon and keys in a dish not far from the door that he's shut and secured behind him. Old habits die hard. Lee has her own key if she wants to drop by tonight.

Toeing off his shoes, he leaves them halfway between the door and his destiny, and sets to work loosening his necktie. It's too tight. He can't breathe. 

Images of Barbara's face, seconds before she fell, score his mind and he can't close his eyes. Can't keep them open either. She's everywhere. Haunting him, even though she's not dead. She'd loved him. Loves him. Fuck all if he doesn't still love her, too. 

He turns away from the kitchen, heads for the liquor cabinet. He needs something harder than beer tonight. 

Pouring himself a tumbler of whiskey, he finally gets the damn tie off, and tosses it toward a dark corner of the room, downs the whiskey and pours himself another, and then another. 

His hands finally stop shaking, and he can breathe again. 

Barbara's face -- the delicate blush of her lips, curled upward in a smile which defied the gravity that pulled her down toward that dull, echoing thud -- fades away, and he can close his eyes. Think about something else. The smug satisfaction he'd gotten when he'd smashed his fist into Galavan's face and sent the man reeling. 

He wishes he could've killed him instead. Ended the man's machinations once and for all. 

"Barbara was right," he whispers to his reflection in the window, "I  am  a monster." Lifts the tumbler of whiskey in a salute to his distorted features, and takes a swig of it. It burns. Feels good. Washes away the remnants of Barbara's face -- the raw love reflected in her eyes -- from his mind. 

Jim strips on his way to the bedroom. Lets his clothes fall where they will. Knows Lee will clean up after him, a sad sigh the only indication that his behavior's upset her at all. She doesn't nag, just points him in a certain direction, lets him come to his own conclusions. 

The bedroom is dark as a tomb, and Jim stumbles his way through the darkness, stubs his toe on a corner of the dresser, and mutters a string of curses. The pain is dulled by the whiskey. Some of it sloshes over the edge of the tumbler as he feels his way through the rest of the bedroom to the bed, and sits heavily on the edge of it. The mattress is firm, barely sinks under his weight. 

He tosses back the rest of the whiskey, lets the tumbler fall from fingers gone numb, and listens to it roll across the wooden floor until it comes to an abrupt stop. 

'It's hit a wall,' Jim thinks. 

He's hit a wall too, lies back on the bed, and fumbles with the edge of his boxers, only makes it past the soft patch of black, wiry pubic hairs when the sound of heavy, labored breathing -- not his own, not Lee's -- reaches his ears, and stills his hand; makes his heart thud like Barbara's body had when it hit the pavement. 

"Who's there?" Jim's reaching blindly for a weapon that he doesn't have, fingers combing through pubic hairs as he pulls his hand free from his boxers. 

He pushes off of the bed and nearly falls flat on his face when he trips over his own feet. His hands are shaking again. He needs more whiskey. Maybe a beer. 

"Help me, please." The voice is weak, but Jim recognizes it instantly. 

Penguin. 

He recalls, vaguely -- so much has happened in the past few days that it seems like Galavan's inauguration, and the fallout with Penguin, took place years ago -- that Penguin was injured. Shot. He'd thought (feared) that the man was dead, and hadn't wanted to examine his feelings about it at the time (or ever) so he'd stuffed them away.

Turns out, Jim hadn't had time to examine his feelings for the villain, or anyone, anyway. Things just kept coming at him, one after another, and Jim didn't have the resources or the wherewithal to deal with any of it. 

Jim closes his eyes and forces his mind to focus on the here and now, his lungs to draw air in and let it out slowly until his heart stops hammering like mad in his chest, and he can deal with the fact that, not only is Penguin alive, but the man is lying, injured, in his bed. The bed Jim sometimes shares with Lee (who isn't here), had at one point in time shared with Barbara. And is now apparently sharing with the infamous Penguin. 

It should be terrifying. He should be running for his gun, dialing the police. Instead, he's standing at the edge of the bed, silently cursing the fact that the cock he'd been trying to coax out of its hiding place within its downy nest, is now poking out of his cotton boxers, standing at attention, hard and leaking pre-cum, and fuck all if he doesn't want to jack off to the pained breathy sounds that Penguin's making. 

"I am  a monster," Jim says harshly as he reaches for the bedside lamp, nearly toppling it in his haste, and floods the room with light. 

Penguin's paler than usual. His long, hooked nose is almost a light blue in color. His eyes are glazed, and begging, and his skin is covered in sweat. Blood's pouring from a wound in his shoulder, and, upon closer inspection, Jim can see that the man has a gunshot wound in his side as well. He's a bloody mess, and Jim's dick is a fucking masochist.

Thankfully, Penguin mouths one last plea for help, soundless, and then passes out.

He pulls a robe on, makes a quick call to Lee, leaves her a voicemail, telling her to stay at her own place tonight. His wayward cock’s finally under control. 

They'll talk tomorrow. Or maybe never. Jim’s not sure which it will be just yet.

Jim boils water, grabs his well-stocked first aid kit, and sets to work patching Penguin up as best he can with what he's got. 

The man's out cold, doesn't protest, just lets out an occasional pathetic, mewling moan every now and again that Jim shushes with gentle, comforting sounds. It makes Jim's heart clench, and forces him to revisit thoughts that he'd thought he'd locked away for good. Penguin's overtures at friendship had not been as easy to resist as Jim had pretended they were. 

A visit to the hospital is out of the question, and, while Jim could call Lee, or Nygma, and ask for medical advice, he doesn't. It would raise too many questions, and he is too fucking tired to answer any of them. Too on edge.

By the time Jim finishes taking care of Penguin's injuries, the morning sun is peeking through his blinds, and he's grateful that he's got the day off, even though he'd contemplated (before he'd discovered an injured Penguin in his bed) going into work anyway. Avoiding that conversation that Lee wanted to have. 

Penguin's face is no longer a sickly shade of grayish white and the man's breathing much easier, face free of the lines of pain that had creased it earlier thanks to the little white pills Jim had coaxed into the unconscious man, pulling him up into a half-sitting position, back against Jim's chest as he’d hand fed him the pills, and then coaxed small sips of water into the man's mouth, gently rubbing his throat to get him to swallow. 

Though he's exhausted, Jim cleans up the mess that he's made. He tosses the bloody gauze that isn't wrapped around Penguin's shoulder and waist; boils and disinfects the tweezers he'd used to remove the bullet (thankfully it hadn't been in too deep) from Penguin's side, and the needle he'd used to stitch Penguin's wounds. He puts everything back where it belongs in his kit, and takes stock of it. He'll need to replace nearly half of the contents.

He needs to shower. He's covered in sweat, and dried blood. His head's swimming with exhaustion and too much whiskey. 

He's swaying on his feet, standing at the foot of his bed, and Jim can't seem to make himself move toward the bathroom. The crystal of the empty tumbler glints golden in the early morning light where it rests against the far wall of the bedroom, and when Jim blinks, he gets a flash of Barbara's face, just before she hit the ground, then of Penguin, that first time they'd met.  

Penguin stirs in his sleep, face screwing up in pain, or memory, and Jim's heart stirs alongside him, aching because Penguin aches. 

Unthinking, exhaustion, and the Siren call of sleep, of Penguin, pulling him toward the abyss that Barbara has already plunged herself headlong into, Jim crawls into bed beside his nemesis, wondering why he'd turned down the man's offer of friendship so many times when all he'd wanted to do was take him up on the offer. 

Denial. 

Ideals. 

An overwhelming sense of duty binding him to follow the letter of the law, rather than the spirit of it.

Pressure to settle down and start a family.

He burrows beneath the covers, and pulls Penguin toward himself, laws and society's expectations be damned. 

He's bone weary, and his mind is plagued by what ifs, and images of all the crazy shit that's gone down since he moved to Gotham, and right now, all he can think about is this one thing: how comfortable it feels to be lying in bed, beside a man who should be considered an enemy. A man he's killed for (albeit in an abstract manner; Jim hadn't set out to kill the man), a man whose life he's saved, twice now. A man, who, by all rights, should be dead, twice over. 

Pressing a kiss to the Penguin's -- Oswald's -- warm forehead, Jim smiles when the other man smacks his lips, pained creases vanishing from his face as a smile takes the place of a scowl. 

Oswald shifts in his sleep until he's nestled firmly within Jim's warm embrace, head resting on Jim's chest, ear pressed over Jim's heart which is now beating out a slow, steady pace. 

Oswald sighs in contentment, breath evening out as his sleep deepens. And, with the sun's light turning from soft orange to a golden glow creeping across the bedroom floor, Jim follows Oswald down into sleep, eyelids fluttering closed, arms wrapped around Oswald, unwilling to let go, offering what little comfort he can while asleep.

Barbara's fall, the memory echo of her thud, dies out with each warm caress of Oswald's breath that ghosts across Jim’s bare chest. It keeps the nightmares at bay. Keeps Jim grounded to the present. To this. To Oswald, vulnerable, lying in his arms.

'I might be a monster, Barbara,' Jim thinks as sleep pulls him further under, 'but at least I'm in good company.'

Oswald shifts in his sleep, whimpers, and Jim shushes him with nonsensical words of comfort. Hints of sound that, when taken at face value, mean nothing, but to a man lying in another man's arms, both mostly asleep, pain pills wearing off, mean everything. 

A deferred promise of trust, of hope, of love...

Tomorrow. The next day, maybe. They'll talk. Visit just what this is between them. Why Oswald had come to  Jim , of all people, when he’d needed help. 

Until then, though, Jim is happy to sleep, Oswald's body a warm, comfortable weight against his. Safe. Secure. Monster comforting monster in an otherwise hellish world. 

 


End file.
